Serpent's Child
by netrat
Summary: FINISHED. On All Hallow's Eve 1942, the past meets the future and gives it a few helpful hints. The making of a Dark Lord. For everyone who doesn't consider "evil" to be sufficient characterisation.


_This is a vignette of two twisted men – no, not Snape/Lucius slash. Not Sirius/Peter either. Two _other_ twisted men and no slash at all. I very much liked where JK was going in CoS, and this is my take on an important event in a major character's life. I should like to mention that I endorse very few of the views offered here. That's why I haven't turned out to be a Dark Lord (yet)._

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter (whom I don't want anyway), nor any of his canon associates (no matter how much I want some of them). She does. If you have to ask who "she" is, go read the books instead._

_SUMMARY: On All Hallow's Eve 1942, the past meets the future and gives it a few helpful hints. The making of a Dark Lord. For everyone who doesn't consider "evil" to be sufficient characterisation._

**Serpent's Child**

On 1 November 1942, while everybody else was attending the Feast, the boy was sitting alone in the Slytherin Common room. An open Transfiguration book was lying on the table next to him, but instead of studying, he was talking to the portrait on the opposite wall.

"I'm evil, you know", the boy said, defiance in his voice. "That's what Father Jackson always said. Snakes are the Devil's friends and only evil people talk to them."

The man in the portrait chuckled. "Yes, I've heard that before."

The boy watched him closely, trying to find the courage to ask a very important question. "I need to know something", he began. When the man looked at him with polite interest, he said, quickly: "How come I've never seen you talk to anyone else?"

The wizard's somber features barely shifted. "Think."

"It's because you don't", the boy said bluntly. "You just pretend to be asleep like the lot of them in old Dippet's office. They sleep all the time, and so does Hufflepuff in the kitchens. Your lives must be very boring." This was not what he'd wanted to point out.

"A thousand years is a long and often quite dull time", the man agreed. "Besides, old people need their sleep. Why, I slept from 1920 to 1941, and I doubt I missed much." His eyes, emerald-green, suddenly turned sharp and focused. "Then I had reason to wake up."

The boy sat very still. _This_ was what he'd wanted to ask about. 1941 had been the year he'd come to school. The year he'd left Father Jackson and his numerous prejudices behind. The year he'd found out about so many things. "What reason?"

The wizard chuckled again. "Ah, you know very well, or at least you can guess. Let's just say – no, on second thought, I'd rather not say anything."

The boy took a deep breath, but when he spoke, his voice was very quiet. "I found a book in the Restricted Section, and in it is one sentence about the Heir of Slytherin." So. He had said it, but the very moment he spoke, he was aware of how ridiculous it sounded. Salazar Slytherin didn't appreciate stupidity, nor dreamers. The boy prepared himself to continue with his homework, silently watched by a painted man who pretended to be asleep.

"Good. Very good." A great satisfaction, and even the slightest hint of surprise, lay within those three words.

He should have been delighted, but instead he felt even more confused than before. It could not  ... he would never ... "But I'm not special", he blurted out, a very un-Slytherin reaction. "And if I'm special, it's only because I'm all wrong. I'm not even a pure-blood! And blood is all that matters." He fell silent, ashamed of the sudden outburst.

Again, Slytherin's eyes narrowed. "Blood is very important indeed", the Founder said. "But you think that you cannot do anything about your blood, and you are wrong. A muggle-lover's blood is no better than a muggle's, no matter how far they can trace their line. Being pure-blooded means to be a wizard and nothing else, and to know and accept the fact that wizards are the superior race. I think you have quite the right idea about muggles."

_Serpent's child is full of woe ... _He could still hear their singing in his sleep, although he hadn't seen any of them for two years. Their teasing had haunted him all through the summer he had spent at the Ravenclaw girl's. _Look, Tommy, there's a nice worm on your pillow, won't you talk to it? Maybe it wants to be your friend. _And Father Jackson, a vein throbbing in his temple: _Devil's spawn! Down on your knees!_

 "I hate them all." The children, Father Jackson, the oh-so-friendly-and-charitable muggles at the orphanage who had taken him in, _Devil's spawn_, and _just you be grateful and bow that thick head of yours, Tommy_. Tom Riddle most of all, the arrogant muggle who had left his mother to die. Whose name was suffocating him, making him want to scream every time "Mister Riddle" was called upon in class. The feeling, the one that had grown inside him ever since he'd found out about magic ... this was hatred. Not the way he hated his peers, who were so much purer than him (not to mention rich), or that old fool Dippet, or the Gryffindor-favouring Transfiguration teacher who'd given him a _week_ of detention just for putting his DADA hexes to good use on a Hufflepuff girl. There were many people he hated, but he didn't want to kill them all. Not Malfoy, Diggory, or Clearwater. Not even Dumbledore or Dippet. Just the muggles ...

He forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand. "The book said that you left a legacy for –" He trailed off, not managing to end the sentence with "me". _The Secret Room, in which the Unspeakable Terror reigns, waiting for Serpent's Child to release it_. He found, despite himself, that he was trembling with excitement. "Is it real?" he urged, when the man did not answer. "Is it true?"

Slytherin regarded him for a very long time. "I do not wish to speak of that matter", he finally said, not a hint of a smile in his face. "If there were such a legacy, he who considered himself worthy would have to prove his worth by finding it." Suddenly, his face softened and he chuckled again. "I very much wish to see that you do", he added. "I'd almost given up hope that someone would come along. Do indulge an old man and find my Chamber, will you?" With that, not awaiting an answer, he closed his eyes and settled comfortably in his frame.

The boy let out a deep breath. He had done it. The Secret Room – the Chamber – existed, and he was Slytherin's Heir destined to find it, or at least he could be if he put the effort into it. He would learn everything he could, and he'd be the greatest wizard of all. He'd make them tremble, and then, when his victims cowered – then the Serpent would bite, and there would be delicious revenge for everything he'd ever had to endure.

_Serpent's child will kill them all._

Love it? Hate it? Please R&R!


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